Saint Jude
by FalseEyelashes
Summary: Ten days straight they’ll sit there waiting, and they’ll pray. They’ll both silently pray, calling on Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. SawyerKate. PostSeason Two finale.


**Saint Jude**

**Disclaimer: **They aren't mine. We clear?

**Rating: **R

**Summary: **Ten days straight they'll sit there waiting, and they'll pray. They'll both silently pray, calling on Saint Jude: the patron saint of lost causes. Sawyer/Kate. Post-Season Two finale.

**Author's Note: **This story is weird. I pumped it out rather quickly: less than a week. And it's pretty straightforward. It's after the finale; it's what has happened to our intrepid trio. Or, in this case, duo. This story focuses on Kate and Sawyer and of course, the Kate/Sawyer. Jack has his own little fic coming up. But yeah. Take it for what it is. I by no means believe this is what will happen next season, but I like it. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy. (And PS: the lyrics belong to Bright Eyes, "The Movement of a Hand.")

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

Today is September 22, 2004.

You are leaving Sydney, Australia.

Today is September 22, 2004.

You are flying out of Sydney, Australia.

Today is September 22, 2004. And you wonder if Saint Jude is still listening.

- -

**day one**

(you follow the footsteps echoes leading down a hall to a room)

- -

She opens her eyes on concrete. Cold concrete rests against her warm cheek. Cold, but it almost feels good. She raises a hand to her face. Her cheeks are flushed, too hot, inhumanly hot. They make her fingers tremble.

She opens her eyes again. Looking up and past the floor she lies upon.

Glass. No, more like Plexiglas. She is in a box. She is boxed in, tiny air holes punched into the surface, but sure enough, there are three walls of Plexiglas and a wall of solid brick behind her. The funny thing is, for the life of her, she can't see past its dull surface. .

She wonders if she is in jail, and if so, how she got here and where the metal bars are and all the other people.

She thought you wore orange in jail. Orange jumpsuits. Looking down she just sees dirt-stained clothes and dirty hands and knows that even in jail you're cleaner than this.

Solitary confinement? Maybe it's a kind of solitary confinement. Some kind of cruel and unusual punishment. No, that doesn't make sense. She can't think of a single crime she committed in the past that would ever land her here.

Come to think of, it she can't think of a single thing. At all.

Rush of panic, white noise in her ears, and she realizes the only thing she can hear in this transparent cage is her own heavy breathing and nothing more.

She rises up to a sitting position. Her head is pounding, her temples aching, and she takes a deep breath. Head in her hands and she really has no idea where she is right now. She closes her eyes, tight, and tries to think, tries to remember, anything, and all she sees is stretches of white, of static. There's nothing.

There's nothing.

In a crazed realization, she recognizes that she has no idea who she is. All she knows is that today is September 22, 2004, and she is supposed to be at an airport in Sydney, Australia.

There's sand under her nails. Her hair smells like the ocean.

- -

She walks the perimeter of the box on shaky legs, running her hand along the glass. Maybe looking for irregularities, maybe looking for an escape. There is a door. But no handle on this side.

She retreats back, presses her back against the brick. And closes her eyes, wishing it all away. She recalls a story about red shoes and tornadoes and there's no place like home. She recalls just the barebones, black and white plotline. She seems to lack the color to fill it in with detail.

It doesn't make a lot of sense.

An hour later, or maybe ten minutes, the door opens, opens and closes and she can't make out a damn thing past the wall or the door.

A man walks through the door. Dressed in white, a surgical mask over his face, an impossibly large syringe in hand.

"Easy now," he says in a muffled voice, and before she can even think, ask, kick him hard and knock him down, her arm is in his iron grip and the needle enters her skin, fast and hard and painful.

"Easy now," he says again. And walks back out the door.

She sees a toy airplane fall through the ground.

And then it all goes gray.

- -

**day two**

(there is music playing tiny bells with moving parts)

- -

She dreams of wild horses racing through the jungle. Running and running with no goal in mind, their hooves pounding against the earth, creating a deafening roar that vibrates in her ears, her head aching against it.

They run so hard and they are so lost they keep going, going too far. And as they try to stop, sliding, kicking up a torrent of dust, they fall down and down and down off the side of a cliff and into the waiting ocean below.

- -

She wakes to a load thump, the sound of a falling body, and opens her eyes to the dull florescent lights that always seem to be flickering. Across the way, across her cell, she can see a body lying there. She sucks in a breath and backs up a little, scarcely any movement at all, and aligns herself in the farthest reaching corner.

The men dressed in white move their arms in an elaborate fashion, a signal, she imagines, and the door without handles or knobs opens and releases them.

The body is still there.

It's a man. She can tell that much. It is a man. And he isn't moving.

- -

The man stirs a little later. She'd say an hour, maybe two, but she's kind of lost track of time here. Here in the box. Alone. She'd say she's never been a very good judge of time, but she's not really sure if that's a lie or not. She's somehow become the least reliable person to make generalized statements about herself.

The man moves a little, moaning slightly. He tries to stretch his legs, but still remains in the coiled fetal position. In the dim she can see his eyes fluttering open. She can hear another groan and his breathing gets a little louder.

She turns away, legs drawn in, her back up against the wall. She doesn't know this man. She doesn't know this man and she doesn't know why it bothers her so much that he keeps calling for Kate.

She doesn't know why he has to say it like that, broken and almost pleading. She doesn't know why just the sound of it is enough to make her want to run away. She thinks of horses and shudders in reply.

- -

Hours later, the room is brighter, and she wonders if this is morning. If this, the brighter, harsher lighting is their attempt at recreating the dawn of the day. She doesn't like how false it feels. She doesn't like the emptiness.

She doesn't care for the fact that she seems to be running on empty, running towards nothing and away from ghosts she doesn't recognize.

The man is still there, and in this simulated morning light she can see him clearly. He's asleep, or maybe just passed out; she doesn't know how to distinguish the two. Still curled in on his side, legs bent, arm behind his head as a makeshift pillow. His hair is too long to be considered fashionable and his shirt looks a bit like flannel.

There's blood. There is blood on his clothes, covering the left side of his shirt and splotches that travel down the curved leg of his jeans. A giant cut on his right cheekbone and she wonders what he did, what he did that led to this and why she has to share a cell with him.

His breathing is heavy and she wonders if this is normal. Probably not. Nothing has been normal since she awoke in a plastic cube, carrying only one memory and nothing more.

"Kate?" she hears him croak, and it's just like last night all over again.

She looks at him, his eyes wide, fixed on her. He stares at her with the same look people get in church, she thinks. Salvation written clearly across their faces, believing that for the time being, they might have found an answer to their prayers.

"Kate?" He sounds so desperate, so desperate and confused. It slowly dawns on her, a genuine kind of rising, that she might just be his Kate.

"Are you…" And she starts again, her voice rusty and out of practice. "Are you talking to me?"

His brows knit together, confusion marring his face, and he struggles to sit up. "Yes…yes, I am talking to you." Each word, pulled long and slow, pulled as though he's trying to tame her, calm her. Pulled as though he is speaking to the madman in the straight jacket and trying not to alarm him.

She wonders where he's from. Definitely the South. The drawl and that almost musical lilt to it. Not Texas. No. Too much whiskey to the sound. He sounds the way Jack Daniels tastes and she wonders why or how she knows this.

"I'm Kate?" And he nods slow, and this time, this time he looks just sad. She decides she doesn't like it.

"Yeah. You're Kate." He doesn't have to whisper, but he does. The sound still seems too loud in their empty box.

"Who are you then?"

"Sawyer."

A raft surfaces in her mind. Churning water. But that was Huck Finn. Not Tom Sawyer.

She wants to know why she remembers only obsolete details. She wants to know why she can't remember anything that actually matters.

"Sawyer? Are we dead?"

"Not yet, Freckles. Not yet."

- -

**day three**

(here the shadows make things ugly, an effect quite undesirable)

- -

She leans against the brick wall and vaguely notes it's warm. Not hot, just warm, as though the entire length of this brick wall has been slowly roasting by or near or over a burning fire. She thinks hell and immediately pushes the thought away.

He's wrapped into the corner where two of the glass walls meet, connect. She pretends she doesn't notice the smears of blood he leaves in his wake on the pane, but she does. She wonders if she'll dream of this tonight and doubts it. She knows this happened. Her dreams are only composed of memories she can't remember occurring, a strange concoction of true facts and useless fiction.

- -

When she closes her eyes at night, when the lights fade to a depressing dim, she sees things. She is almost getting used to it. One night, there is a diner and an older woman, a woman with green eyes and a sad smile. A woman calling out for Katie as a woman who might just be herself walks away.

Kate wakes up crying, realizing she has no idea what she looks like anymore.

Sawyer's awake. And he hears her crying. He has to. But he just sits there, opposite corner, knees to chest, and doesn't say a word.

She wonders if her eyes are green.

- -

He tells her things. Tells her that on September 22, 2004 their flight, Oceanic 815 from Sydney, Australia, crashed on this spit of land and they've been here ever since. He tells her about the hatch, about the button that saves the world. He tells her about the Others, these people that have them locked in like lab rats, doing fun experiments, making them look for the metaphorical cheese, zapping them with electrodes every time they get it wrong.

He tells her there's a man named Jack here with them. She doesn't know if she's supposed to feeling anything every time he says his name. She doesn't. She wonders if that's wrong.

After eating their dinner, or at least that's what she calls it, and after they dropped the bucket of water, bar of soap and two old towels in the middle of the cell, after they strangely, timidly, clean themselves, Sawyer tells her that she killed a man. She killed a man and was being escorted back to the US with a genuine US marshal and a pair of handcuffs to decorate her wrists.

She doesn't want to believe him. But she really doesn't have any ammunition to fight with.

So she tells him he probably deserved it. And he just smiles.

"Of course he did, Freckles."

- -

**day four**

(the bold and yellow daylight grows like ivy across the wall and bounces off of the painted porcelain, tiny dancing doll)

- -

She dreams that in Australia one-armed farmers take straggling travelers in. She can hear the Patsy Cline playing and almost taste burnt toast.

Then suddenly it's all burning and the flames dance on her tongue.

- -

The bread they feed them is stale, and if it's possible, the water tastes so as well. She wonders if they're being poisoned.

It should frighten her that she doesn't care.

She'll just tell you they're too far gone by now. It doesn't really matter.

- -

It's mid-day, just after the second meal, and the cold, anesthetic silence is too much.

"Is Sawyer your real name?" He raises his head sharply at her question. Surprised. He is surprised.

"What?"

"It's just, well, kind of an odd name. Is it yours?"

"No."

"Oh. So is it like a nickname?"

"Not quite."

"Then why use it?"

"I use it to remind myself, Freckles." She has noticed as the days and the meals pass on by; as his stubble turns to beard and the dirtier they get, the less he looks at her. She doesn't understand why and she understands even less why it hurts so much.

"Are we friends?" He doesn't answer and she doesn't like it. "Or, well, were we ever?"

"We're accomplices, Kate. There's a difference."

"Is that why we're here?"

"Probably."

"And Jack?"

"What of it?"

"Is he an accomplice too?"

"No. He was too good for that."

She doesn't ask him about his choice of words.

- -

**day five**

(her body spins, as she pirouettes again, the world suddenly seems small)

- -

She doesn't sleep. The dreams taste like reality and everything feels too backwards and mixed up. She doesn't like to close her eyes and find herself in her own twisted version of wonderland.

The day takes on the sheen of exhaustion, and it's really anything but pretty.

She tells herself at least it's real.

- -

There have been five breakfasts and five days with Sawyer in her cell and five uncomfortable nights on the always cold concrete. Kate falls asleep some time after dinner. Kate wakes up screaming before midnight.

- -

Her head is pounding, throbbing and honest to God feels as though it is mere seconds from exploding. She can hear her own shrill screams and wishes she could make them stop, but she really doesn't know how. The pain is too much and she sits there, hunched over, clutching her head, and the screams die down into racking sobs and all she can see is a Janis Joplin t-shirt, a house up in flames and a lone military uniform.

Her breath comes in gasps and she shudders as she feels a hand on her shoulder.

"Kate?" And it's that man, it's Sawyer, and she doesn't know him and she doesn't know anything, anything at all, and she just doesn't understand how memories you can't recall still manage to hurt so fucking much.

"I'm fine…" voice shaking, betraying her words. "I'm fine. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, it's just that I can't…I can't remember."

The air can't seem to stay trapped in her chest. She struggles. She struggles to breathe and she just wants to know why. Why she doesn't get to remember. Why it has to hurt.

She feels him pulling her against him. She feels the tears and the constricting of her chest. She feels the panic.

And then she just feels him. Sawyer.

He kisses her. She'll tell you that it was just to calm her down, a way to get her to shut up, a method more humane and more effective than just smacking her, smacking her like in all those old melodramatic films with the tarty lipstick that always looks black, running off the monochromatic reel. He kisses her and he tastes of blood and sweat and fear and she can't place where she has tasted this before, she can't pin down why he tastes and feels so familiar, why it's almost as though this is just a ghost of something more. Something real.

She doesn't think. She just lets herself fall in.

- -

**day six**

(on an off-white, subtle morning you stretch your legs in the front seat)

- -

There is a tree. There is a tree with a heart carved into it. The initials are blurry, but the heart is still there.

A young girl stands there, long brown hair, and a boy stands there with him. She kisses him, chaste and quick, beating butterfly wings across the lips. And she smiles.

"I guess this means that we're in love, Tom."

He laughs.

- -

She takes a heavy sip of lukewarm water. There is a beat. And then she asks it.

"Were we in love, Sawyer?"

He laughs. And she takes that as an answer before he elaborates.

"No. No, we weren't. Too much _Gone with the Wind_ bullshit between you, me and Jack."

She eyes him curiously.

"Everything just always goes back to _Gone with the Wind_. Back to Tara and that Bermuda love triangle of Rhett and Scarlett and Ashley. Everything."

The conversation feels light and airy. She wonders how long it will stay this way.

"I'm shocked you're this familiar with such a story."

"'Course, love. I'm from the South. Next to the Bible, it's all about _Gone with the Wind_. All about the rise and the fall of the good ol' days. Cautionary tale, if you will." He smirks. "Surprised you don't know the story a little better, seein' as how you're the heroine and all."

"What?" She sees him smile, and it's nice. She'll say this is the point they've reached where true stories hurt too much to tell and re-tell, and fiction is a soothing change of pace. It's probably the truth.

"Why, Mizz Scarlett, you's surprise me." Pause. "Story's all about you, kid. You in the center. Pining for a man who's love is someplace other than your own fucked up little heart. You want him because he's good, because he's everything a man is supposed to be. Funny thing is though, he wants you too, he wants you, just not bad enough to risk everything on it. Ashley Wilkes would rather marry his cousin than lay down his life, his heart and his goddamn reputation for Scarlett. Enter Rhett Butler. Enter Rhett and the fact that he is the goddamn proverbial other side of the coin for Scarlett. Both them, two of the same. Selfish, stubborn, rotten lots. And he wants her. And she wants him at some baser level, but you know what she does, don't you, Freckles? She spurns him. Time and time again. She thinks she's too good for a man like him. She thinks she's too good, because if she's not too good, then she's just as bad or worse, and that's a sad little truth she's refusing to recognize.

Remember how it ends, Freckles? Do you?"

"She marries Rhett."

They both look surprised for a second. And then he chuckles. "That ain't the end there, belle. She marries Rhett, but she still loves that Ashley. She still loves him and Rhett knows it, and the time finally comes for him to move on. But Scarlett, the second Rhett is heading for the door, she realizes that he, that Rhett, is the man she loves, that he's the one she belongs with. But it's too late. It's too damn late."

"But, after all, tomorrow is another day." She has no idea where the words came from, they just tumbled from her mouth unbidden. He looks equally surprised and a genuine smile graces his lips.

"I'll be damned. Don't even know your own damn name but you can quote _Gone_ _with the _fucking _Wind_."

She smiles, nervous, desperate to drive the conversation back and away from herself and the fact she only remembers odd pop culture references and the barest of sketches regarding herself. "So if I'm Scarlett, I guess that makes you Rhett?"

He smiles in return, a cocky arrogant smile that fits his face a little too well. "Of course, Freckles. I, like Rhett, have always had a weakness for lost causes only once they're truly lost."

She doesn't ask him what he means. And he doesn't continue talking.

The rest of the day passes in a stilted silence. And she wonders when their rapport turned this sour.

- -

**day seven**

(the road has made a vacuum where our voices used to be)

- -

Newspaper open before a woman. "Obituaries" spelled out across the top page. Small-town newspaper, small-town diner.

Diane Jansen.

Cancer.

Dead.

Diane Jansen died of cancer. Tom Brennan died of a gunshot wound. Wayne Jansen died in a house fire.

Kate Austen is a murderer.

Don't they know it's the end of the world.

- -

It starts coming in a rush and she doesn't know how to stop it. Memories flood her mind and she can't find a way to slow down all the corresponding emotions they bring.

"I killed him. I killed him. Oh, Jesus. I killed my father. I killed my father." Her voice cracks and she can't breathe. "He's dead and Tom's dead and they're all dead. Jesus. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I killed them. I killed them…"

She sobs, curled in the corner of the room. She can hear Sawyer approaching and raises her hand.

"No, no. No. Please. Just leave me." And the words barely leave her lips. Shoulders shake hard and there's a small hiccup as the sobs die down to soft, barely audible anguished cries.

She hears a heavy sigh and retreating footsteps.

It's not worth it anyway.

- -

She'll tell you today is the worst day of her life. And she's probably right.

- -

**day eight**

(and you lay your head onto my shoulder, pour like water over me)

- -

A woman stands before a kitchen sink. Her arms are immersed in the water, bubbles reaching up and past her elbows. The clanging of silverware and the chink of china overrides the evening sounds whispering in through the screen windows. Stray hairs curl about her head, recoiling in the summer heat.

A girl sits at the kitchen table braiding the stray ends of the tablecloth together. She wants to know if it's going to rain tomorrow. She wants to go on a picnic down by the lake with Daddy and she wants to know if the weather is going to ruin said plans. She seems to want a lot of things for so young an age, but time will pronounce this later.

"Sweetheart, only God knows for sure what tomorrow's gonna bring. And he sure as hell ain't saying nothing before hand."

A roll of thunder and the descent of rain bring the kitchen windows shut.

- -

They don't talk much anymore. It's not they've run out of things to say. She imagines quite the opposite is true. Rather, things have changed. She knows who she is and she knows who he is and she remembers every action, word and passing glance that has transpired between the two of them. The slate is no longer clean and starting over isn't an option for either one of them.

But then again. It really never was.

- -

One of the overhead lights burns out. The light over Sawyer is now dead and he sits in shrouded silence.

Knees to chest and she bets she should probably move around a little. Her legs ache in protest as she stretches them before her and her neck pops loudly in the empty space.

He never brought up her father. He never brought up yesterday. He never really judged her. For anything.

It hurts to think of it. It hurts to think of him.

- -

Empty and alone she rises to her feet. She moves slowly across, her reflection barely ghosted back on the pane of glass.

She stands over him. He lies there, still. And she doubts that he's asleep.

She lowers herself to his level. And pauses, holding her breath.

She curves along his side. He winces as she presses a hand upon his chest and she mutters a soft apology that gets lost in the arch of his neck.

"Can I just…I just need…I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

His arms wraps around and clutches her waist hard enough to hurt.

She's asleep in minutes, breathing in heavily against his warm shoulder.

- -

**day nine**

(so if i just exist for the next ten minutes of this drive that would be fine.

and all the trees that line this curb would be rejoicing and alive.)

- -

"_Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind…"_

The noise is deafening. The inebriated crowd belting the words out, lavishing in the seconds after midnight. The confetti falls from the ceiling and balloons bounce off heads and eventually hit the ground.

"_Should auld acquaintance be forgot and days of auld lang syne…"_

Tom grabs her by the shoulder, turning her to face him. He places a hand below her chin and their eyes meet.

"_For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne…"_

He smiles and whispers in her ear.

"For tonight, let's just pretend we're living for the future."

"_We'll take a cup of kindness yet…"_

He kisses her and she pretends she's not about to cry.

For auld lang syne.

- -

When she wakes he is still there. Her arm draped over his shoulder, their legs tangled together. She can feel his hand running up and down her back, large, sloppy circles increasing in their scope and pressure.

She looks up and sees his wide-open eyes, fixed on her.

"Sleep well?" he mutters. She nods in assent.

"Good," he whispers. His hand keeps moving.

She lies still, her hand clenching the fabric of his shirt into a fist. She'll tell you that he was right. She'll tell you that he had it down from the beginning. They really are two of a kind. There really is something there between them. She'll tell you that it's all true. But she won't tell him. There's no hope in that.

For whatever reason she can feel the tears prickling in the corners of her eyes and fights them back down.

- -

They don't move. They stay twisted together until late in the day. She sits up, back against glass and he stares at her.

It's really all it takes.

She grabs him by the back of the head and kisses him. It is the kind of kiss two people like themselves were always meant to share. It's the kind of kiss where you know you're on death's doorstep and you've just been lucky enough to get on this long without the door being unlatched and opened. It's angry and scared and too passionate to last for long.

He holds her tight, and yes, he seems to get it. He doesn't ask questions or slow the pace. He doesn't breathe her name with an air of condescension, a plea begging her to tell her this is the right thing to be doing. It's wrong and they're wrong and the world preaches right and maybe that's why they're here. Maybe they're here because no one cares what happens to them next. Maybe they are here because they are lost and were never meant to be found.

Maybe it doesn't matter, she thinks, as he peels her pants down her hips. Her fingers shake as she grips his belt, as she slides the zipper down metal teeth.

He doesn't tell her that he never wanted it to be like this. He doesn't tell her that they deserve better. He doesn't tell her that he loves her and it's not supposed to be like this. Instead he grips her by the hips and groans as he lowers her onto his cock. And she moans in return, loud and full.

And they fuck and she presses her hand against the glass, gasping into his ear, as her sweaty palm slides up and down the empty frame.

When she comes she thinks the word good-bye.

- -

**day ten **

(soon all the joy that pours from everything makes fountains of your eyes)

- -

They sing solemn hymns and clasp their hands before them. The day is garishly sunny, too bright, and the crowd wears sunglasses, the scene before them reflected back too many times over.

Two black coffins rest before the small crowd; flowers adorn their closed lids. A priest stands watch, arms outstretched. There is a Bible in one hand, a crucifix in the other.

The words don't matter; they've all been said before. What matters is that the sun is shining and the birds are singing and the crowd matches word and pitch in quiet somber song. What matters is that she is twelve and she is still breathing and the two before her are dead.

They were neighbors. They were their neighbors who didn't hear the train racing around the bend and didn't realize it was too late until the side of the car met the front of the speeding engine.

What matters is that these two didn't realize it was too late until the gravedigger had already raised his shovel.

- -

According to the others, she's supposed to die today. They gave her that shot the first time she saw them. And if Sawyer has been counting correctly, this is nine days later. And if they don't give her another injection, she imagines this is death.

She remembers these things.

- -

She wonders if there were windows in here she'd be able to see outside. She bets the sun is setting soon. She kind of knows this one she'll get to see.

"We're going to die, aren't we."

"Yeah. Yeah we are."

"I love you, you know." She states it simply. A plain fact.

"Yeah, well, God help me, I love you, too, Kate." He says it flippantly, as though trying to disguise what he really means, but his eyes betray it. His lips, firmly pressed, jaw tight, that slight tick: they betray it all.

- -

They drag them outside. Bags overhead and she remembers this. She remembers this now. No gag this time, and she's almost grateful. She's even more grateful when the bags are pulled away and she feels the wind on her face.

They stand at a cliff's edge, the surf crashing angrily against the rocks. The sun has just begun its descent, the sky a burnt orange. She can see the rifles they hold, she can see what is to come. One shot to the both of them and over the cliff they fall, into the churning waves and broken, jagged rocks below.

"Where's Jack?"

"Jack's fine."

And she understands at once exactly what they mean. Jack's fine. Jack shows promise. In whatever manner Sawyer and Kate fucked up, Jack would never do the same. Sawyer and Kate really were just two lost causes from the start and Jack never did look right carrying a gun and the two of them were always lost, always lost, and, oh, God, it's an utter cliché, but they were lost, and maybe, maybe it's okay to be lost as long as there's someone else there with you.

She hears them cock the gun, one and then the other, not quite simultaneous, and raises her head.

Sawyer turns to face her. Messy hair blows in the wind; his face strangely calm and expressionless. She'll tell you that they've already said their good-byes and that this is really just a formality of sorts. She's not sure she buys it.

"See you in another lifetime, Freckles."

She watches the men line up their guns. Watches as fingers fondle the trigger.

She wants to ask them if they've seen horses in these jungles. Instead she screws her eyes tight shut and says a silent, wordless prayer to no one in particular.

She guesses that the main idea is that she's sorry. She's just not really sure who she's apologizing to. Her father, her stepfather, her mother, herself. Sawyer or Jack or God Himself. Sorry she was such a disappointment. Sorry they didn't have more time. Sorry it took him so long to realize what a lost cause she really was and sorry it took so long for her to love him back.

She hears the shot, an explosion of sound, and as it all turns red she swears she can hear Sawyer laughing.

- -

(because you finally understand the movement of a hand

waving you **good-bye**)

- - -

**-**

**- - -**

**fin. **

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**


End file.
